The Room
by Casual Hazard
Summary: Retelling the game story with some minor changes and enhancements to fill the gaps and improve the quality of the story. Updated November 23rd, 2005
1. Prolouge

**A.N.** A while ago, I've written a Silent Hill 4fic re-telling the game's events faithfully. A few chapters later I re-read what I wrote and found it to be awful. It was filled with unnecessary details and made the story read like novel/walkthrough hybrid. I decided to re-write the fiction while leaving out certain encounters, areas and items that don't add much to the plot. Not only that, but I might give the plot a slight twist and see if I can come up with a better ending than what the game offered. I could tell this is where Konami screwed up most, as most of SH4 are about what happened after the ordeal, as if most players weren't satisfied with the ending(s). Don't get me wrong, I don't think I can outdo what Konami started - I'm simply trying to see if I can take it further.

Granted, **I don't the names, characters or places. All I own is the fiction text.**

**Note: **writing is a pleasure, but receiving feedback & reviews is a delight. Please, enjoy and indulge me.

* * *

When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep... and you're never really awake.

In a sense day and night no longer connected like links in a chain - that logic of time being linear no longer appealed to his common sense. He might as well toss logic out of the window if he could crack it open.  
But for now, logic and windows didn't matter to the nodding figure sitting in the dimly lit hallway.

Though the tenants of South Ashfield Heights rarely saw much of Henry Townshend, they wouldn't mistake the sleeping being attired in a light slate blue shirt and jeans for a vagabond. Even with the slowly sprouting five 'o clock shadow.

His arms loosened in his sleep from crossing across his chest to falling limp in his lap behind his knees. His head bobbed slightly as his neck muscles followed his body into sleep, then tensed involuntary to tug the head back into position. This time they tightened too hard, and as a result the back of his head met the wooden door he was leaning against.

He slowly blinked at the grey moquette, brushing dark strands away from his eyes, and raised his gaze expecting to see the radio sitting on a bookcase in the living room, just a few meters away from him. Instead he was faced with a wall decorated with three rows of carmine handprints.

They held his eyes; until his mind worked that this wasn't the inside of his apartment, which was especially committed to memory during the last few days.

Indeed, he saw, as he found Room 303's door to his left and Room 301's door to his right that he was for once on the other side of Room 302's door. Sitting, eyes wide in mild surprise and disbelief and hands planted to the floor by his sides; sitting where he had longed to be.

But this was too easy - not more than an hour ago he was leaning against a chained door upon which he had unleashed an outburst of despair once it proved to immune to screwdrivers and hammers.

_And then there were the handprints... _

Henry stood to the curious graffiti on the wall. The building wasn't one of the most high-class in town, but never would the mild mannered superintendent tolerate such blatant vandalism. He certainly didn't wish to _touch _the eerie marks. Surely they belonged to a large hand.

A hand, perhaps, like one materializing stealthily from the door behind his back, cuffed with a dark coat sleeve. Henry barely turned his head to see the snaking arm in a wild blur, before it landed on his shoulder like a tarantula. His eyes skimmed along the lengthy black arm to its source. The door was sprouting several tiny lumps all over. With what sounded like knuckles cracking, one cluster of lumps flourished into fingers then extended into a hand that struggled to pull itself out of the door. Henry struggled to break from the hand that seized his shoulder. It desperately clung, digging its fingers into his shoulder, but it was one hand against Henry's two.

Finally he managed to pry its fingers, but barely managed to bolt before it reached for his collar, hooking one finger in. By now, several hands shot like homing missiles, each grabbing a shoulder, ankle, and wrist and yanked him back. More tendrils extended to restrain the struggling man, pulling him further back. He shook his head madly in attempt to shake off the hands that were resting on his head, covering his eyes and clamping his mouth. Even his kicks didn't stop the arms from pulling him back towards the door like a animal caught in a heavy net.

The hands melted back into the door, bringing their prey along.

-------- - - - - - --- - - - --- - -- -- -

He jolted, staring wildly with one eye that wasn't hidden beneath his hair. It took a few moments for it to adjust to the light before it registered a mute radio sitting a few yards away. The sweeping end of one chain brushed his shoulder and caused him to shrink back to the side. But it dangled harmlessly from the tangle of chains that bound the door.

He rested his brow, moist with sweat condensation, on his hand, his chest heaving visibly. His half-closed eyes hazily stared into nothing as he came around.

Just another dream, he reassured himself inwardly. The ceiling light bathed his spot in a soft glow, aiding to wash the dread away. Henry was too weak, too weary to let despair take possession now. There will be time to dread, as there have been for the past few days. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, and leaned on the chained door, drinking in the sense of security his prison. At least he was left to breathe.

_sigh_

The ceiling lights blinked.

He opened his eyes and squinted at the artificial sun of his world.

They blinked again. All the side lamps around the apartment blinked simultaneously. The hallway leading to the bedroom, perpendicular to doorway where Henry sat, transmitted a shuffle of footsteps.

A boy walked into the living room, standing in the area the junctions the living room, the kitchenette, the doorway and the bedroom hallway from which he came. He looked into the living room, half turned so Henry could see the back of the sandy hair and navy sweater with grey horizontal stripes.

"Who are you? How did you get in here?" Henry wanted to ask, but barely managed to utter a dry "..H.. ha...". The boy turned, startled, and stared with his liquid doe eyes.

Henry tried again to speak, but found his throat too parched. The boy only regarded him with timid curiosity, and then turned again to the living room, forgetting Henry's existence.

"Wait," Henry tried to call with an outreaching hand, hindered by the loss of his voice. He stood in an attempt to follow the boy, but suddenly found the doorway path stretching before him for yards and yards - the kitchenette, hallway and living room shrinking in the distance. The door behind him was assaulted with a series of thuds, and he groaned in pain as each bang seemed to hammer in his head. "Mom," a distant child's voice called, followed by a series of louder bangs on the door, "mo-om, let me in!"

The loud knocks grew more urgent, and before the trembling door Henry lay curled protecting his head in vain from the sharp blows that matched each knock.

"Mom! Mom! Let me in!"

-------- - - - - - --- - - - --- - -- -- -

Henry realized he was lying curled to the side in his bed.

His vision blurred as he came to. Three transparent layers of the spinning ceiling fan shifted like cards dealt around. It hurt his eyes and he blinked once and twice, lest his vision will straighten. The three fans gathered into a neat stack of a solitary ceiling fan, stained and hanging from a bloody ceiling with  
_What the...?_  
the walls being equally red, rather like the pipes within them imploded and bled rust. Wallpaper bubbled with the building humidity, cracking and rotting, infested with fungus; which is exactly what he hoped the case would be. Otherwise it seemed more apparent a human size organism was present in the room and exploded - a fountain of blood and a rain of organ shards.  
Everything seemed equally tainted with shades of crimson. Then again the smell of rust is almost identical to the taste of blood.

He was suddenly aware of his motion - light, floating. Almost beyond his control. A scream sounded in his ears, as if it was emitted from within him. However he knew well his mouth didn't move to utter such a wail.

_**What's with this room ? It's covered in blood and rust.**_

Henry looked around, but couldn't locate the speaker. It sounded rather close, low like a hushed whisper, clear as a bell's ring.

_**This is my room. But what the hell has happened to it? This room - is it really my room?**_

Regardless of the physical state of the room, the atmosphere was distorted, as if the room he was in had somehow been overlapped by another room, a place almost the same but not quite.

_**The air is so heavy... My head hurts...**_

He ran for the door.  
The hallway was narrow - he could easily cross to the bathroom door that was in front of him. The white bathroom door greeted him, as well as noise  
_Static?_  
emitting from the living room. Three steps and he turned to observe the TV that was the source of the ruckus. The stereo on top of the book shelf participated in the chaotic symphony of white noise.  
He would have proceeded to turn them off if something hadn't sprung around the corner of his eyes.  
Spring might be the most accurate description, though it's not entirely correct. It was more of a sudden awareness of a presence.  
It can happen sometimes that something had been present all along yet to the person not recalling such a presence, it "springs" taking the person by alarm to realize the presence of the object.  
Amongst the chaotic stains and peelings of the paint on the wall was a certain pattern. It was like one of those eye tricks he had seen people bring out in photographs: a cloud of rising smoke that looks like a grinning demon. It took keen observation to make out something out of a random pattern.  
But this couldn't escape the glimpse naked eye.

_**Creepy. It looks like a face.**_

It was a profile of a weeping man, glaring and distinct, engraved into the wall. More accurately it seemed as if the man was trying to escape from within the walls and his face left a scar of despair on the walls that contained him.  
There's a hypnotizing pull, a mesmerizing effect to these horrid images that forces one to stare longer than one would wish. But the spell broke.

A stirring at the door?  
No, it was only his hypersensitivity that lead him to believe so. Yet he was grateful his attention was brought to the door.  
The chains, the locks - they had disappeared. Verily they left their marks on the door. But now there were gone.  
He started for the door.

The TV and Radio went silent.  
The sudden silence stopped him in his tracks and for a moment he thought his he heard his pulse in his ears.  
Or not. Rather he heard something else. But he needn't strain his hearing if he was to turn around towards  
_the weeping man_  
the wall.  
The face was gone and in its place on the wall were two black stains.  
Whatever liquid it was, any drop of stain normally would land on the surface and spread, proceeding to scale itself to a larger circle. But this was different.  
It was as if these stains spread ample veins along the wall.  
More and more black stains furiously bubbled from beneath the layer of wallpaper.  
Such an abomination granted an opening for an arm to extend. Then came the head of a specter covered in strings of slime, like a man climbing out of a tar pit.  
Finally the specter, in the form of an aged bald man, was able to pull itself free from the wall and proceeded to float.  
Forthwith it dropped on its hands and knees, falling into a series of convulsions, letting out a series of grotesque moans.

Henry's vision began to fail. As hard as he tried to shake his head and blink, a dark rim infested his field of vision and swallowed his sight.

All was black.  
-- - --- - - - -- ---- - --- - - - -- --


	2. The hole

- --- - - - -- --  
_Not again, not again, not again  
this dream; I cannot wake  
What is real? what is real? what is real?  
It's getting hard for me to take  
What I need; what I need; what I need  
The little something I delight  
And the white sugar gently hides me_  
- - - - - - -

Henry took in a sharp breath and exhaled with a soft moan. Italmost seemedhe had forgottento breathe.  
There he lay taking in one breath after the other, in no hurry to open his eyes, unsure into what world shall he come to.  
The black film that contained his awareness cracked with the slow blinking.

His vision shivered, his eyes adjusting to the flood of light. It brought pain to the front of his skull.  
Finally he was able to focus his vision to the rotating blades of the ceiling fan. His throat was parched and dry. It barely mattered as Henry savored the drab familiarity of his bedroom, forgiving the nightmare it had inspired earlier. As long as the walls remained clean and hid nothing within them.  
Indeed, they bore nothing but framed monochromatic photographs of Silent Hill: The Tolucalake hung over his bed, anddowntown by his bedroom window under the portrait of the lighthouse.  
He rolled over to the side of the bed and sluggishly sat up.

"Oh, man," he muttered to himself, "what a dream."

Groggily he reached for the bottle of water on the side table, unscrewed the cap and raised the neck to his chapped lips. Only a few droplets slid down the ribbed, plastic vessel and into a dry mouth.Without regarding the bottle, he tilted further back in an empty hope to get more.

Nothing.

With a sigh, he screwed the cap back on and tossed the empty bottle in a wastebasket on his way out.

There was no static to be heard when Henry opened the bedroom door to the hallway. From the safety of the corridor he observed that the wall. The ghastly face of the weeping man was no where to be seen. The TV and radio sat silently, like well behaved children. It was day time. Strangely, not enough sunlight filtered into the apartment. Henry had kept the lights on regardless of time. They cast a soft white glow about the grey apartment.

He crossed the living room to the kitchenette, trying to ignore the apartment door.

Apparently that was his last bottle of water, as the cupboards and fridge bore none. Instead he pulled out a glass and poured tap water in it. Didn't the super say something about tenants being able to drink tap water?

Lukewarm, but hydrating nonetheless.

It's unfortunate the same couldn't be said about the bathroom water's temprature. His showerhead was in a miserable state, coughing cold sprays of water for the past few days that showering seemed more of a punishment. He decided not to endure the awful routine today, being low on toiletries and deciding to use them sparingly. He splashed some cold water on his face and regarded the sanguine crescents forming around his hazel eyes.

His apartment was never in such a neat condition. The last four days were spent cleaning. He prenteded the only reason he wasn't outside was because he was too busy dusting, sweeping, cleaning his photography equipment, and arranging his possessions. It was all he could do to occupy his mind, lest he ...

He leaned on the wall by the bookcase and looked out the window. His apartment was on the eastern wing of the building, with the windows overlooking the courtyard and the western wing. Observing the curious habits of the western wing tenants was another hobby he had adopted. It started out with him standing by the window trying to get someone's attention. No one seemed to notice his presence, even with him persistentlybanging onthe window glassfor as long as his legs could carry. Even hammer blows on glassdidn't proof any more effective than his fists.

He shifted his vision to the street that lay behind the building's west wing. A woman stood by the subway stairs. She stood out in her array of colorful clothes, but that was all what Henry could observe. The distance made her figure rather vague to Henry, and the dirty window glass didn't help provide a clear view anyways.  
She glanced at her wrist - her watch most likely. Perhaps she was waiting for someone. She stretched her arms overhead and sauntered down the subway stairs.

The world went on - oh, how he envied these people who took a mere walk down the street for granted. How he longed to at least extend his confinement to the area range he can see out of his window.

He glared at his apartment door.

_Five days ago... That's when I first had the nightmare. I haven't been able to get out of my room since then. The phone doesn't work, the TV doesn't work... I can't even get anybody to hear me when I yell..._

He was walking towards the door without being very much aware of it, like it summoned him to have a closer look.

_My whole world has suddenly turned insane... My door's chained up, the windows are sealed shut... And on top of that, someone chained the door from the inside. How am I going to get out of here?_

He stopped at an arm's length, when he felt something strange crawling under the peephole. No, not crawling. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes lest they betray him. Scratches were forming, burning red marks that morphed into words carelessly scratched:

**Do not go out.  
Walter**

He gave himself a mental shake and stepped in closer to examine the message.

A clatter outside his door alarmed him. He checked the peephole and caught a glimpse of a bobbing auburn head and a stripped top. It was Eileen Galvin – his twenty-something neighbor from Room 301. He couldn't see the floor, but from her motion it was apparent she was picking up glass bottles she dropped, putting them back into her grocery bag.

"Oh man," she muttered glancing at his door, brushing loose strands out of her face. "Hope my luck changes before the party..."

She then walked away, out of his line of vision. And Henry noticed something on the hallway wall facing his door. Did Eileen notice it too?

A crash detonated.

His heart thumped against his ribs, and for a moment he forgot what he had seen in the hallway. The explosion sounded like it either came from the bedroom or the bathroom. Gingerly, he tiptoed towards the bathroom, straining to hear, lest something else that might have come with the blast would stir.

Dead silence.

He took held his breath and opened the door to a crack.

From the narrow space he found a hole in his bathroom wall, between the sink and the toilet seat. The impact of the explosion shattered the rectangular mirror's. The dust had already settled on the pile of rubble that stopped the door from opening all the way. He managed to squeeze himself through the crack.

Upon examining the hole Henry found a loose, broken pipe protruding out of the hole. He pulled it out.

Whispers echoed down the hole's tunnel.

"S-Somebody in there?" he called weakly.

The whispers ceased. But no answer was returned.

He nudged the pile of rubble with the toe of his shoes and poked around with the pipe. Whatever made this hole wasn't likely to be able to hide easily. But the debris concealed nothing but the bathroom floor.

Then it occurred to him, as he looked from the rubble to the tunnel, that the rubble here was just enough to cover the mouth of the tunnel, not fill it up. He poked his pipe about the hole's esophagus, reaching far insideto see if there was a tunnel'send to tap.

There was no end to be found. It didn't make any sense. Then again, the state of his apartment, namely the door,hadn't made any sensefor the past few days.

One door closes, another door opens.

_I wonder if I can get out this way...?_

If his orientation was correct, and assuming the tunnel is straight, it'd likely lead him to Room 303. Or at least to the source of the hole. He traced his hands on the tunnel's mouth, trying to get a rough calculation of its diameter, he wasn't certain where it'd lead to or whether he could fit in the first place. The end was swallowed in darkness. This agitated him as he knew he didn't have a working flashlight on him. The pipe at hand, however, might serve to prod ahead of his path.

Henry pushed the pipe into the tunnel first, and crawled into it. He was thankful he was neither overweight nor claustrophobic as he barely fit his shoulders and torso in. Finally, his legs disappeared into the hole.

-- - - - - - --- - -- -- - -- - - -- -  
_Oh, the sweet sugar saves me  
It's the room that confines me_  
-- - - - - - --- - -- -- - -- - - -- -


	3. The Subway

**A.N.** I feel obliged to post an author's note to explain a few things:

1. I apologise for the format - there shouldn't be that much spacing between the lines, but I suppose it's because I uploaded the document and published it straight. I hate runningby the site's document editor because the glitch would stick letters together.

2. Sorry if this chapter covers something you may have gone through (i.e. the subway), but it's all apart of what I plan to do with the story.

3. Yes I plan to deviate from the story a to some degree - thank you diddly day for the encouragement. All I can say is that this version will focus more on Henry than Walter, so expect less refrences to the cult

4. Feedback - it really warms _mein kalt herz_. I'm not demanding any, but it really fuels my writing and motivates me to provide you with a better quality. Don't underestimate even the simplest words. As long as I know someone is reading, I'll keep on writing.

5. This is embarrassing - I apologise for the sentence "Flashing a long pair of incisors." I was refering to the fang like teeth and was told they're called incisors. Only when I checked in the dictionary (like just now) did I discover that incisors were the front teeth. Please overlook this embarrassing error. I admit that English is my second langauge so there are these minormistakes that might occur.

* * *

Henry pushed forward. The line of his motion was abnormal. 

With the narrow space, he was barely able to squirm his way about, hardly able to extend his elbows out.

Henry knew his hands or feet wouldn't have created enough force to move him as much as the distance he ate with each push. Rather Henry felt he was being "pumped" out of the tunnel, an unseen force aiding him to push forth. If he stopped, he wouldn't budge.

If he attempted to move, he'd find himself being pushed forth.

The tunnel width wouldn't allow him to look in any direction but straight ahead.

He saw the light at the end of the tunnel clearly, but the closer he got, the more this sensation of his vision failing increased, turning the circle of light into a mass of white speckles, distorting, stretching and flickering.

Growing frantic, he tried to crawl faster, but his pace wouldn't change. It didn't matter.

In the end he would reach the end of the tunnel, and the light would consume him.

-- - -- -- -------- - ------- - -- -- - -

There was a mechanical drone. The light receded as the lamp passed overhead. After a moment of blindness, escalator steps materialized below his feet.

He looked about, mildly disoriented, and found himself seated on one of the ribbed steps, descending.

The area was barely lit – the only source of illumination was the line ceiling lamps suspended over the escalator. Their glow brushed highlights on the trunks of pipes on either side of the escalator. The area seemed abandoned and condemned.

Finally he reached the bottom of the escalator and got off. It seemed the area was in the final stages of construction, yet had been abandoned and remained barren. No more than a few steps ahead, he could see something standing at the end of the poorly lit hallway.

Henry squinted to make out colorful attire; a flamboyant contour, no doubt belonging to a woman in its dainty occupancy. Familiar it was, though Henry couldn't remember where he had seen it.

The shuffle of his boots reached her ears. She turned to face him.

"Who are you...?" She squinted stepping into the circle of light.

A rather odd questions to ask a complete stranger. It's not something one would ask while, say, crossing the street or riding

_the subway…_

Of course! That's where he'd seen her: the woman who stood by the subway entrance this morning.

But if this was the subway how did he end up here?

"Well?" She insisted.

"I'm sorry?"

"What's you're name?"

He hesitated. "Henry. And you?"

She laughed, "this is my dream and you don't even know my name," she answered, widening her light brown eyes in amusement, "it's Cynthia."

"Your… dream?"

"That's right. This is just a dream," she looked about with her arms loosely crossed and added with a bored huff, "and a really terrible one too."

What was this crazy woman saying? Then again he wasn't exactly the model of perfect mental health.

"I hope I wake up soon."

She walked about, studying the decaying walls. There was a slight accent in her speech. Or perhaps her tongue was heavy.

Did he really intrude her dream? Or was it the other way round?

"So you think this is a dream, huh?"

"Well, if it's not a dream, what is it?" she brought her tan hands up and shrugged, as if her answer was the only one that made sense.

"Anyway, I want to get out of here," she started for the turn at the end of the corridor, "but I can't find the exit," she added as she looked into the dark path beyond the turn.

Henry looked back at the way he came from, but the glow of the light made it hard to see his original path, curtained by the shadows. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he faced the escalator and knit his eyebrows together in concentration, trying to connect the dots between his apartment, the hole and the subway.

"Say," she started as she approached him, "Will you help me find it? I'm kinda scared all alone," she flirted brushing his shoulder.

Then she looked up at him and added, "I'll do a 'special favor' for you later..."

Her breath indicated she was intoxicated. Yet Henry couldn't conceal his discomfort about her blatant remark. He looked to the side in embarrassment. She laughed at his unease, stepped back and walked ahead of him, shrugging, "it's just a dream, so I might as well have some fun."

Henry sighed wearily. Apparently he wasn't going to get any reliable answers from her.

Throughout their walk in the subway, Cynthia barely said anything. He wouldn't have known she was following him if her high heels weren't clicking behind him. At some point he looked back at her. Perhaps it was the poor lighting, but Cynthia appeared to have grown paler.

When they passed by the restrooms, she let out a sickly moan.

"Wait a minute," she leaned forward, bending at the waist, a hand to her mouth, "I think I'm gonna puke."

She groaned and ran into the women's room.

----- -- ------ --- -- --

_Cynthia let out a sickly moan and staggered towards the restrooms. She retched audibly, pouring the contents of her stomach into the toilet seat. _

_When she was done, she leaned back on the stall door and dazedly stared at the ceiling, trying to stop the stall from spinning._

----- -- ------ --- -- --

He stood waiting for her, leaning at the wall opposite the restroom doors. He wasn't sure how much time had passed and was starting to nod when he heard the door creak.

The Men's room door, opened slightly.

_We're not the only ones here?_

From the dark crack, Henry felt something squirming behind the door. Or no, he only thought he saw something.

The door burst out open and a creature sprung out and fell by Henry's feet.

Henry stood frozen with shock, but now he saw a good reason to grow sick.

The creature was a dog with mould infested flesh. Only a few patches of fur remained, but not an amount to be considered fur at all.

Its face has been tightened enough to force it's snout to distort into a gaping maw bearing only a pair of fangs and a long, red proboscis hanging out. The hardened flesh about its eyelids grown hard and heavy that the creature's eyelids were forced shut.

A pool of blood oozed out on the floor, and the creature lay still.

The men's restroom's door swung. Two beasts, very much identical to their fallen kin trotted out and approached Henry, their red tongues down dragging and sweeping at the floors. Henry got the impression their tongues were their ways of exploring their surroundings - either these beasts didn't care for his presence or they couldn't see him.

Long tongues brushed the floors like a blind man's stick until they touched the carcass of the bleeding dog. Each dog stood on one side of the carcass and using their probing tongues they proceeded to suck the carrion's remaining blood. At some point, they'd pull the tongue into their maws with a swift movement; perhaps to swallow what they had absorbed then whipped out again ravenously to have more.

Henry stood witnessing the gory ritual, pegged stiff.

And yet if he was to be asked how, he wouldn't be able to answer _how_ he gathered his wits enough and generate the strength to swing the pipe, beating both dogs engrossed in suckling with full force. He swung, once, twice, thrice. After the fourth impact, both dogs fell into a state of convulsion.

The quivering beasts whimpered in a peculiar manner, sounding like something between gurgling and soft moans.

Raising one leg, he brought down his foot and stomped the creatures' necks. Both creatures howled in union before falling dead.

He lowered his pipe, breathing heavily after the odd events that had just unfolded before his eyes.

Henry burst into the women's room.

"Cynthia," he called before approaching the stalls.

It was a fairly small space, enough to only fit three stalls. A hole, much bigger than the one that was in Henry's bathroom was gaping upon the wall next to the third stall. The first stall appeared occupied, yet when he tapped it, no one seemed to answer. The other two were empty.

He regarded the hole. It was framed with a strange, red graffiti design.

It seemed rather possible Cynthia had gone through there to escape the dogs around here.

Determined, Henry climbed into the hole.

Henry felt he was being sucked up a twisting tunnel. This tunnel was roomier than the tunnel he originally used to get into the subway realm. Faster and faster the tube disappeared beneath him.

The experience was short lived, and at some point Henry was aware his physical body didn't exist.

But he did find his body. It lay on the wool blankets that covered his bed. His hand grasped a handful of it for assurance; his vision was still adjusting to the flood of light.

_Another dream? But it seemed so real. Or could it be? Was I really inside that woman's dream...?_

He walked into the living room and peered out of window towards the subway entrance. There was nothing alarming or suspicious about it.

He then noticed something about the small cupboard by the couch. It had been there since he had moved in. He had two of his framed pictures set there, one of him as a kid and the other was of him and his friends in their graduation gown.

It appeared someone had moved the cupboard and hastily returned it to place. One of the framed pictures has fallen on its face.

_Who could have done it?_

Henry pushed the cupboard away from its original position, exposing a tiny hole on the wall. It seemed whomever carved it was aiming to create a bigger hole; the area surrounding the hole was cracked and badly damaged.

Henry stood before it, pondering. He had an idea where it might look into. But he hesitated - was it a vile hiss he just heard coming from the hole? Perhaps it was just a breeze blowing through the tight hole. He kneeled before the hole and looked through.

Eileen sat on her bed. She looked around, muttering, "Hmm, where did I put that broom..?"

Looking about the room, her gaze finally settled on the direction the hole in her wall was at, alarming the peeking intruder.  
Did she see the hole?  
She stood and walked in the direction of the hole. His hazel eyes widened and he swiftly pulled away from the hole, holding his breath. Did she see him? Oh, he'd be grateful to have been seen, but not caught stealing a glance that appeared ill-meant.  
"Oh, there it is," she walked by the hole. He heard her footsteps trailing off, followed by faint click of the door being shut.

Slowly, after he exhaled, he turned and looked into the hole. All what was left was the stuffed pink rabbit sitting on her bed.  
Henry sighed and leaned against the wall, feeling both relieved and perplexed that she didn't notice the eyelet.

-------- - - ---- -- -

_A small crowd gathered about the ill woman lying on the tile floor. There was a confused murmur amongst them on how to take care of her. A man in a trench coat pushed through. _

"_Please let me handle it," he said reassuringly, "I'm a doctor."_

_He dutifully checked her breathing and pulse with his black gloved hands. His eyes were almost invisible behind the thick framed glasses. The coat collar and hat brim concealed most of his face as well. _

"_She'll be fine," he told them, "but I'll have to carry her outside." _

_Before anyone could say anything, he lifted the dazed woman and carried her out._

_There was a mutual relief amongst the crowd as they scattered. Who would want to put up with a drunk woman anyways?_

- - --- ---- - -- ----------

Sharp noise sounded in the atmosphere. It was muffled but it nagged. Then it occurred to him: The phone was ringing.  
In his haste he stumbled, but ran to his bedroom, determined to catch the call before the ringing stops.  
The phone was indeed ringing. He yanked the receiver off the hook, almost pulling the phone off the side table, and barely caught his breath to utter a "hello" when he heard on the other end.

"Where did you go? Hurry! Save me. If you need a token there's one here. It's him! He's coming!" The line was cut. It was Cynthia.  
Henry was in cold sweat. He hurried to the bathroom and crawled into the hole.

Moments later Henry found himself standing in the bathroom with the hole behind him. While his eyes adjusted to the dark, he sensed something occupying the middle stall. He turned and nearly jumped out of his skin.

It stared at him with empty eye sockets, extending a gray bloody hand. The expression of anguish was frozen and silent.  
In the dim light he came to realize he was staring at a mannequin that looks like Cynthia, or at least dressed like her. It held something in its extended hand.  
He hesitated to touch it, fearing the mannequin was holding out a bait for him to take, so it could pull his arm and reach for his eyes.

Lightly he tapped the hand with the steel pipe. No reaction.  
Holding the pipe steady, just in case, Henry took the token from the mannequin.

Henry ran down the hall way. Two booths were erected by the gates. Henry wasn't sure which one he would take.

He looked through the metal bars and noticed something. Lipstick, a compact mirror and several makeup items scattered about the floor by the ticket booth.

There was no slot to receive the token from Henry so he tried Lynch Street Line's gate. It received the token and revolved the turnstiles gratefully.  
He ran down a set of stairs, taking a turn towards a corner that led down another set of stairs. They led down to the subway tunnel. The train had remained in the station, rusted and useless. He walked alongside it cautiously, wondering where to head to next and decided to try the first compartment at south end. As luck would have it, it appeared to be the control room. A solitary red button glowed in the compact compartment, indicating it was the only thing operating.  
Upon pressing it, Henry heard a small beep followed by mechanical whir.  
As he climbed out, he noticed something floating towards him.

It was a specter, much like the other ghost he had seen crawling out of the apartment wall.  
Henry suddenly felt a sharp blow followed by a dull ache in his head, his vision was blurring. The pain had his limbs weak for a moment and the pipe slipped out of his hands. But he was too busy nursing his head.

The specter drew its arm back and pitched it forward, stabbing its hand in Henry's chest.  
He gasped, falling victim to a series of shivers. The hand was still impaled in his chest, sending cold waves that numbed his nerves. It wasn't physically embedded in his torso, and yet he could feel the greedy fingers groping about for his heart.

Grabbing the ghastly arm, he pushed himself back while pulling the arm until he finally managed to dismember it.  
The ghost fell back, but insisted on floating back towards him and trying to resume the torment session. Only this time it was met with Henry's trusty pipe. He wasn't aiming to finish off the menacing phantom, just enough sweeps to get him out of the way.

The pain in his chest was still fresh. Pressing one hand to his heart protectively, willing it to regulate its pulse, he staggered towards the train pulling the pipe along.

- ----- - - - ------ - --- ----- ---------------- --- -- ------ - ------ -

_The ticket booth was empty, as the line was closed today due to maintenance. _

"_Perfect," he thought. _

_Though the couple looked curious, people were used to the sight of someone plastered enough to require an escort home. For added effect, she screamed, "it's him! he's here!" while he supported her. All he could do was answer the suspicious looks with a charming smile to aid in the conclusion that the woman was plain simply drunk. _

_He didn't require to put up with it for long. He didn't intend to go as far as to take her home. It was too risky. _

_The empty booth will do fine._

- ----- - - - ------ - --- ----- ---------------- --- -- ------ - ------ -

The train itself was not a sanctuary from the ghosts. It was hard to dodge them in such a tight spot, but the ghosts' sluggish manner proved to be a handicap for them.  
He finally found an open door that led to the opposite platform. Thankfully this time, one of the subway exits was open.

He hurried up the escalators and reached the turnstiles, out of breath. The ticket booth's door was left ajar.

The booth was ribbonned with blood. Cynthia lay in a pool of it.  
She breathed laboriously. Henry kneeled by her.  
"Are you okay?" he asked in hushed anxiety.  
It was hard to tell the source of her bleeding, she seemed blanketed with a scarlet web.  
She gasped, "It's just...a dream, right...?" She smiled faintly, "...I think ...I drank too much last night..."  
She turned her face to face him, "...I never got to do that..."special favor" for you..." she raised a hand to him, "...I...I feel like I'm dying..."  
He cursed his inability to offer any comforting words. He took her hand, "its okay...it's just a dream..." he whispered to her.  
She heaved sharply and lay limp, her topaz eyes void.

Henry brushed Cynthia's eyelids shut.  
-- - - - - -- - - - - -

_Man, what's that noise out there...?_

Sirens wailed outside his window. It took Henry some time to warm up his limbs. He had the impression he slept for a while. But who can tell when there are no means to tell the time, he reflected while flexing his arms and rubbing his stiff legs.  
Indeed an ambulance was to be seen outside the area of the apartment building. It was parked precisely by the Subway entrance next to a police car.

_Is it Cynthia...?_

Noise crackled in the living room. The radio was emitting it. Apparently it had picked up a signal and was broadcasting something, Henry noted, heading towards it.  
"... Hurry up and get that ambulance... "  
His ears perked at the word.  
"...Quit yappin' and move her already!".

".. Damn...she's got numbers carved into her chest. I wonder if... "

The signal broke. Henry tried to tune the radio but all he got was white noise.  
It was apparent he wasn't hallucinating about the ambulance. Even Eileen, who was sitting on the bed when he peeked through the hole in the wall, got up and appeared to be heading towards the window to check the source of the noise.

Suppose he _was_ in the subway, and Cynthia _did_ die and the police are investigating the crime scene, what is this crater that gapes the timeline between Cynthia's death and his return to the apartment. What happened after he closed her eyes?

It could have been a dream. But it stirred something within Henry; something old. He tried to block it, but was met with such a surge of emotion. His face remained expresionless less, but he couldn't stop two tears from rolling out of his eyes.


	4. Author's Note

Dear readers.

I'm sorry to have taken so long to update this. And I'm sorry if this "update" led you to believe this is a new chapter.

It's may be a hard task novelising the game but what's even harder is trying to inflate a flat character - yes, talking about Henry here.

To put your mind at ease, when I said I was going deviate from the story, I wasn't going to change the whole plot. Rather I'm making a few tweaks here and there to focus on Henry - his character mostly, maybe give a hint of personality to his character (hopefully I'm doing a good job so far?). Walter, his victims and the cult, are still within the story, but they'll be taking somewhat of a backseat here. May sound discouraging, but trust me on this.

I hope you excuse my delays, for apart from planning the plot carefully and trying not to leave any plot holes, I'm afraid life tends to pull me away from the laptop now and then (need to put bread on the table and all). But I'm not giving up on this.

I'm thankful for your support and feedback - really, I blushed with excitement knowing that someone not only read, but acknowledged my efforts.

As I said before, writing itself is a pleasure, but feedback is a delight. I'm utterly grateful!

I'll keep this hung for a while, then I'll replace it with a fresh new chapter. Soon - God Willing.

Casual Hazard


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